


A Quiet Moment

by Iolre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Acceptance, Asexual Sherlock, Fluff, His Last Vow, Janine is mentioned, Kind of The Sign of Three, M/M, Quiet love, S3, Season 3, Sherstrade, Some things are better left unspoken, a touch of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-16
Updated: 2014-01-16
Packaged: 2018-01-08 22:47:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iolre/pseuds/Iolre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once Sherlock knocked on the door. He was quiet, subdued. Spending the night with Janine always left him unsettled, unnerved, like there was something crawling underneath his skin that just ate at him. The door opened, and Sherlock looked up into Greg’s warm eyes. Pleading. The DI took one look at him and stepped aside, letting him in without saying a word. It was a few short steps, and then Sherlock was in his safe place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Based on this prompt on tumblr:
> 
> 'could someone write me some season 3 kinda emotional hurt!comfort asexual!Sherlock/Lestrade fic, which explores the whole episode 3 Janine thing?
> 
> It’s hard for Sherlock to pretend that he desires her and every time he is close to her and she kisses him it feels so very wrong, it’s seems off, nearly repulsive because he normally doesn’t do that - kissing, letting someone near in his personal space, except on rare occasions with Greg. I want some quiet moment were after meeting Janine Sherlock searches calm in Greg’s not demanding love. Please?'
> 
> Written for thelittlepalecat.

Sherlock smiled at Janine as she left, eyes warm, bright. As soon as the door closed, his expression shifted to one of disgust. Regret. Disappointment. Not at her, no. She was serving her purpose, which was what he wanted. At himself. He walked to the sink and brushed his teeth, gargled with mouthwash, stripped and stepped into the shower. Let the water flow over him. Washed the feel of her touch away.

He had never been one for much physical affection, and had never dealt with a relationship where it had been much of a necessity - his past dealings had been superficial. Something he did to get drugs, nothing more. Sherlock’s sham of a relationship, however, had required a skillset he had not known he had possessed. So he faked it, faked the long afternoons spent kissing and groping each other, things he had already erased from his mind. They made his stomach roil. He always scrubbed himself clean after he left. It comforted him, knowing that at least for a few days, he was separate from her.

Dressing quickly, he checked the time on his mobile before slipping it into his pocket, grabbing his long wool coat and pulled it on, tying his scarf around his neck next. It would be over soon, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to see her for another few days. Wasn’t going to have to scrub off his skin the feeling of her touch. Walking quickly down the steps, he closed the door behind him, leaving the doorknob tilted to the side out of habit as he always did. He flagged down a cabbie, slid inside. Gave the address.

For once Sherlock knocked on the door. He was quiet, subdued. Spending the night with Janine always left him unsettled, unnerved, like there was something crawling underneath his skin that just ate at him. The door opened, and Sherlock looked up into Greg’s warm eyes. Pleading. The DI took one look at him and stepped aside, letting him in without saying a word. It was a few short steps, and then Sherlock was in his safe place.

Sherlock pulled his scarf off, then his coat, hanging them next to Greg’s. He watched as Greg walked into the kitchen, flipped on the kettle. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting his natural balance keep him still except for a slight sway. When he opened them again, Greg was standing in front of him, a mug of tea in his hand, offering it to Sherlock. Neither man said anything. Neither had to. Sherlock nodded slightly, taking it from him with a faintly grateful smile. He sipped it, and exhaled in relief. Perfect.

He felt Greg’s eyes on him as he walked gracefully over to the couch and sank down on it, his legs tucked up underneath him. The DI followed, pausing to grab the remote, turn the telly on, switched it to something that Sherlock would find inoffensive. Greg was good at that, even Sherlock had to acknowledge it. There were a significant number of things that Greg was good at that Sherlock either refused to admit (because that indicated sentiment), or simply ignored (also a good tactic to evade any sort of sentimental outburst).

Instead, he did this. Came to Greg. Someone who had always stood behind him, no matter what. Had watched him, cared for him, guarded him, even when he was found high as a kite on his couch, emaciated. Sherlock went days without eating, back then. He didn’t notice. He didn’t care. Greg was the one that would come in. Flush all his drugs down the sink, stock his pantry, make him eat a meal. Even during the times Sherlock was useless to him, too high to be allowed on a crime scene, he would care.

Greg settled on the other half of the couch, careful to leave enough space between them so Sherlock didn’t feel threatened. He was grateful for that. Although he liked Greg’s touch, sometimes, so much time with Janine (who in Sherlock’s opinion had put her hands places she should have asked first) had left him feeling distinctly uneasy with allowing anyone to invade his personal space. He sat and sipped his tea, watching the telly with half of his attention, allowing the rest of his mind to wander.

Sherlock had kissed Greg the first time, years ago. It had been oddly similar to now, curled up on the couch, except it had been clear that something had been growing between them. That scared Sherlock, and sometimes it became too much and he wandered off for a week or two. It all came to a head, one night. Sherlock had turned his head to see Greg watching him, had seen what was in his eyes, and had decided that that night, he was not going to run. He had nothing to run from.

So he didn’t. He moved over and settled in Greg’s lap, the DI’s hands automatically going to Sherlock’s waist to steady him. Lifting his head Sherlock made eye contact, watching Greg curiously. It was almost overwhelming, seeing the way Greg regarded him, the naked, unashamed affection. Slowly Sherlock leaned forward, hands on Greg’s chest, feeling his pulse rise quickly.

When their lips touched Sherlock had to say he was rather disappointed. There were not the fireworks he had heard of from others. No lurch as the world moved around him in this spectacularly life-defining event. Instead it was just a pleasant warmth, something safe and secure. The knowledge that, if Greg wanted him, he could have him, and Sherlock wanted him in return. Sherlock had pulled back, had leaned down, tucked his head in the crook of Greg’s neck. 

It was overwhelming but pleasantly so. A warm buzz, a soft feeling. Sherlock didn’t like it. He didn’t trust it. But he did trust Greg. So they had stayed like that, Greg’s arms warm around him, grounding him. Holding him. Then they had talked. And talked some more. Sherlock had outlined his conditions. What he wanted. What he didn’t. Communication, compromise. Two things that Sherlock was bad at, but that he wanted to use more than anything so that he could keep someone who meant a lot to him. Who mattered so much, unintentionally.

Greg shifting on the couch brought Sherlock back to present day. To the fact that the first show had long since finished and the telly was nearly through a second. Sherlock grimaced and moved, feeling the blood flow return to his legs, feeling his circulation return. Pins and needles were temporary, and he knew it. He glanced at Greg, who was watching the telly. That just wouldn’t do.

Sherlock swung himself so that his feet were in Greg’s lap. He wiggled his toes experimentally, drawing an amused glance from the detective inspector. With a faint chuckle, Greg lifted up one of Sherlock’s feet and started to rub, easing out the tension from a particularly difficult chase the day before. Sherlock hadn’t anticipated Greg being good with his hands, but it was something he would never want to give up. Spreading himself over the rest of the couch, Sherlock closed his eyes, bliss coating his features and making his mind fuzzy as Greg worked his magic.

By the time Greg had finished, Sherlock was half-asleep on the sofa. Greg chuckled and settled his feet back on his lap, watching Sherlock with unashamed fondness as the consulting detective opened his eyes. Sherlock sighed, melodramatic, and then swung his feet off of Greg’s lap, swinging into a sitting position and allowing his body to adjust before he stood up. He didn’t want to get dizzy and fall over. It was never very dignified.

Greg stood with a quiet chuckle and disappeared into his bedroom. After a moment, Sherlock stood and followed, taking the spare pair of pyjamas that Greg handed him. Neither men bothered using the bathroom to change. Modesty had never bothered Sherlock, and Greg had just gotten used to the fact that Sherlock would follow him into the bathroom if he tried to go there. Sherlock scowled at the drawstring as he tightened it all the way, ensuring that Greg’s baggy pyjama bottoms wouldn’t slide off him in the middle of the night. Not that he particularly minded, but it wasn’t pleasant to wake up naked and freezing.

As they slipped underneath the duvet, Greg gently nudging Sherlock until the taller man was curled up against him, Sherlock didn’t let himself think. Instead he inhaled and exhaled, breathing in Greg’s scent and feeling his warm, solid form. He didn’t think about the fact he would be going up against one of the most dangerous men in the world. He didn’t think about the fact it would likely get him killed. Ruin his life. Take him away from the man that loved him so unconditionally that he would accept what Sherlock was doing with Janine with no more than a questioning look. He knew Sherlock had a reason for everything he did, and Sherlock would tell him, sooner or later.

He didn’t want to think about all the bad. All Sherlock wanted to think about was how warm Greg was against him. How the other man shifted in his sleep, always drawing Sherlock closer, possessive even while only his subconscious was functioning. He thought about how it felt, tucked against him. Safe and secure. Protected, guarded. Like no one would be able to get to him, even though he knew that wasn’t true. It was heady. Addicting. Better than any drug Sherlock had ever tried. Greg didn’t know, though. Sherlock couldn’t tell him. Had to keep him safe.

But for now, in their quiet moment - they were content. Loved. Cherished. All feelings Sherlock wanted to hold on to for as long as he was able. All feelings Greg was willing to share. Together they would make it through whatever troubles lie ahead.


End file.
